I woke from a nightmare with my hospital gown damp against my skin.

The ward was so quiet the monitor's beep was the only sound. My mother sat hunched at the bedside, dark bruises shadowing under her eyes.

"My daughter needs to rest. Mr. Crawford, it's not appropriate for you to visit now." My father's voice came from the doorway—firm, uncompromising.

Jeydon had found me.

Of course he had. In Seattle, there was no one Jeydon couldn't find.

"Uncle Simon, I only wanted to see her," his voice sounded concerned—low, soft, gentle—the same voice that had ordered a man to sterilize me like an animal.

"My daughter needs to rest. Mr. Crawford, it's not appropriate for you to visit now."

By evening, my parents' phones began to ring one after another. They exchanged a look, grabbed their coats, and my mother said, "Cheska, we have to go to the office. Rest for now. I'll have a caregiver watch you."

As soon as they left, the ward door opened quietly. I didn't want to see Jeydon's face, so I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.

"Don't pretend." A syrupy, sweet voice slipped into my ear and I snapped my eyes open.

Krisha sat smiling like a painted flower. "I knew you were awake." She rolled her wheelchair closer. "You refused to see Jeydon, so I gave him an idea. If your company hits a snag... your parents will have other things to worry about."

Her perfume was cloying enough to make me nauseous. "Their love for you is kinda overrated," she taunted.

"I told you not to speak of my parents again." I stared at her coldly. "Clearly last time's lesson didn't stick."

"Oh—you're already angry?" She clutched her chest melodramatically. "Don't be impatient. It's not over yet."

Suddenly she slapped her own cheeks twice. "Miss Meyer, I truly was wrong!" She wiped at her eyes and slid from the wheelchair to kneel beside the bed. "Please, forgive me..."

Immediately, the ward door was flung open. Jeydon saw the scene at once.

"Cheska!" He hauled Krisha to her feet and turned on me with fury. "What have you done now?"

I only felt a wave of powerlessness, 'I'm already like this, what else can I do?'

Jeydon choked on his words. "You're injured, yet you still make trouble for Krisha—"

His words trailed off mid-sentence. He inhaled slowly, then pushed Krisha out of the room. When he returned, he sat by my bed and let his fingers brush my cheek as if comforting a child. "Your complexion looks even worse," he murmured. "Come home with me."

I watched him without expression.

He sighed and softened his tone even more. "It's my fault you've suffered so much." He gripped my hand. "Don't worry. I'll make it right."

He went on, voice wrapped in honey. "I've arranged the best surgeon. He will perform a small surgery on you, and your injuries will recover quickly without leaving any marks."

My heart dropped. He had not abandoned his plan. The word "operation" rang in my ears like a bell.

I pushed myself up on trembling arms. "Jeydon."

"I'm here."

The next instant, I grabbed the glass vase on the bedside cabinet and hurled it at him.

The vase shattered against his temple. Blood trickled down his brow. I smiled, and said each word like a verdict. "You can do the surgery yourself!"

That night, my parents took me home.

When the house fell silent, I went to the bookshelf and pulled down twelve photo albums.

Jeydon and I had grown up together.

I used to cheer for him at every basketball game, vote for him in every debate competition, and even learned photography just to capture every radiant moment of his youth.

He never lacked admirers, but after every game, he would only take the bottle of water I offered. After every victory, he only accepted the bouquet from my hands. And the photos he shared online—every single one was taken by me.

Back then, I believed I was capturing love through my lens.

Now I realized, I was only doing what a well-trained maid might do for her master.

I gathered all those photos and the engagement tokens his family had given, packed them carefully, and decided to return them myself the next morning.

In three days, I would be marrying another man. Before that, I needed to sever every tie with the Crawford family.

"Woof!"

The soft yelp of a puppy froze me the moment I stepped into Crawford residence.

Jeydon was crouched on the lawn, cupping a tiny white puppy in his hands while Krisha played with it.

The scene looked warm and domestic beneath the sunlight—yet my fingers tightened on the cardboard box until the edge split.

Not long ago, this same man had killed my dog in one of his cold rages. Now, he was gifting another to Krisha like a treasure.

The puppy suddenly shuddered and vomited.

Krisha gasped, grabbed a blue scarf from the dog's bed, and began to wipe it.

The sight hit me like a blade. That was the scarf I had stayed up three nights knitting for Jeydon's birthday.

When I'd shyly given it to him, he'd said, "I love it. I'll keep it safe."

I had never seen him wear it. But I had often seen Krisha's gloves on his hands.

So this was where my scarf ended up—a rag in a dog's bed.

Then Jeydon suddenly reached for Krisha's wrist. My heart clenched.

"Let the maid handle it," he said in a tone of practiced gentleness. "You shouldn't touch filthy things."

I stood frozen, feeling my blood running cold.

"Cheska?" He finally noticed me, instinctively pulling Krisha behind him as if to shield her. "What are you doing here?"

Krisha peeked out from behind his shoulder, feigning innocence. "Miss Meyer, don't misunderstand. I forgot that scarf was yours. Jeydon told me I could take anything from his closet, so I just... grabbed it by accident."

I ignored her, my eyes fixed on Jeydon. "I came to return something."

I placed the box on the ground. "The engagement token and your photos are all here. I told you before—I'd let you go. Let's call off the engagement."

For a split second, surprise flickered in his eyes. Then he chuckled.

"Stop joking." He walked closer, arrogance curling around his words. "Marrying me has been your lifelong dream, hasn't it?"

He tapped my forehead lightly, as if scolding a stubborn child. "Let's forget the past. Take these back."

I stepped back. "If you won't accept them, I'll just throw them away."

"Suit yourself," he scoffed. "If you can bear it, go ahead."

Without a second's hesitation, I lifted the box and poured the photos onto the ground.

His face finally changed—something strange flickering behind his calm.

Could it be... she really mean it?

No. Impossible!

"Cheska!" He reached for my wrist, but I shook him off.

Then I took out a lighter.

In the next moment, twelve years of love went up in flames.

The fire burned bright and fierce, and for the first time, I could breathe.

'Jeydon—when this fire dies, the ugliest chapter of my life will end with it.'